What if I ruled the world?

It’s a question I get a lot. Whether I’m exercising at one of my many local gyms or simply out on the streets paying homeless people to perform Euripides’ Trojan Women, people want to know what I’d be like as their Lord and Master. Lucky for me, I’ve had to answer the question so many times that I’ve actually perfected my answer well beyond the normal level of question answering.

Q: Hey, Pete.

P: Hey.

(Awkward Silence)

P: Do you wanna ask me something?

Q: Sorry?

P: Do you have a question?

Q: Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry.

P: It’s okay. Just read from the card.

Q: “What would the world be like if you were to run it?”

P: I’m glad you asked.

Q: Jesus, this is a grammatical nightmare.

P: Yes, well. If I were to run the world-

Q: Like a two year old wrote it.

P: Are you done?

Q: I mean, I’m sorry, but this is-

P: Are you done?

Q: Hey, easy. You asked me to do this, remember? I’m doin’ you a favor.

Q: Oh did I screw up your card? Your beautifully written card? My apologies, Shakespeare. “What would the card sound like if you were to read it?”

P: That’s real mature, Dad.

Q: Don’t call me that.

P: The only reason you’re here is because I promised Mom-

Q: That witch!

P: I promised Mom I’d get you out of the house. Why else?! Why else would I do this to myself?!

Q: You keep that up, boy, and I’m gonna teach you some common courtesy.

P: Oh, wonderful. What was that? Five minutes? Five minutes in the same room, you fuck up my card and threaten to beat me. Well, let’s just sing Happy Birthday and make this like every other childhood memory, shall we?

Q: What else did your mother say?

P: She didn’t say anything.

Q: Don’t protect her!

P: She just wanted some quiet time.

Q: It’s her and that neighbor again, isn’t it?! That little shit. I’ve seen ’em makin’ eyes. I seen ’em!

P: Dad, he’s eight years old.

Q: Thinks he’s such a Casanova. Wait til he sees what I did to his Power Wheels. Then, we’ll see who’s laughing. He’s goin’ nowhere!

P: You’re a child. You’re a child, and your sweat smells like vodka. Are you proud of yourself? Was this your goal in life?

Q: I had lots of goals. Once. Then life took it’s turns. Like in that movie. “Big Fish.”

Q: Alright, c’mon. You think you can do it, let’s see. C’mon. Your best shot. Right here. Right on the chin. But! But you look me in the eye when you do it. Understand? You give me that much.

P: I’m not gonna hit you, Dad.

Q: Cause you can’t! One karate class! That’s all I asked! Just one! But no! You had to go and do your dancing! Well, what now, Ballet Boy, huh? How’re you gonna pirouette your way outta this one?

P: Back away from the computer, Dad.

Q: What are you doing? Are you typing all this?

P: I’m trying to write my blog.

Q: Who’s “Q”? Who is that? Did your Mom tell you to write this?

P: Why don’t you go back home, Dad? Huh? I’m sure Mom has finished whatever it was she was working on. Head home.

Q: I can’t. The State took away my license, and I lost my bus schedule. And if I try and walk home I might get lost in an epic world of whimsy. Like in that movie. “Big Fish.”

P: There’s a bus stop on the corner. Just wait there. Okay?

Q: Is there a liquor store?

P: (sigh) Yeah. There’ s a liquor store down there too.

Q: I’m all outta booze money.

P: I’ve only got ten dollars. Maybe if you just stand next to the bottles and look really sad someone will buy one for you.

Q: You just wanna get rid of me.

P: Yes, I do! I’ve said that numerous times!

Q: You’re just waitin’ for the chance to smother me with a pillow and chop me up into little meaty bits. Like in that movie. “Simon Birch.”

P: That never happened in Simon Birch.

Q: Try watching it with your eyes open, you little baby.

P: Will you please go?

Q: Yeah, I’ll go. But I’m gonna kick the wall on my way out. Kick it like it’s YOUR FACE.

P: And there was nothing wrong with that card!

Q: Yeah, I’ll nothing-wrong your card!

And that’s what the world would be like if I were to run it. That, and every morning would start with Queen’s “Princes of the Universe.” Wherever you wake up, at whatever time, that song will just play. Some it will drive to suicide. But others it will drive to success. Plus, it’s the Highlander theme. So it’s kind of the greatest thing ever.

No, I’m not just looking for a woman who knows how to handle her calves. WINK WINK. I have very specific criteria that I believe all women should be held to and judged against. And no, I’m not a picky man. Just specific. That being said:

The Ten Things I Look For In A Woman

She should be smarter than me. Smart enough to know that I shouldn’t do my own taxes.

She should be better looking than me. Better looking enough to know that I shouldn’t do my own taxes.

She should have a sense of humor. So we can joke around while she does my taxes.

She should be the best at what she does. A powerful executive or queen of the bohemians, something like that. Not some bullshit Assistant V.P or some lowly bohemian middle manager. It’s all or nothing with her, and she takes no prisoners.

She should have a fetish for oddly shaped lamps. Nothing too extreme, just something to make Birthday shopping easier.

She should like the show “Slings and Arrows”. Cause that’s a pretty good show.

She should have an irregularly shaped nose. It should still be a nose , human in appearance, but it should just be slightly off. Enough for a less-caring man to say, “Eww, no way. Not with that nose.” And then for me to say, “What a less-caring man! I can’t believe he said that about your nose.”

She should like dogs. Not small dogs that tremble in your hands like heroin addicts itching for a fix. Big dogs. Enormous dogs. Dogs so big that should an emergency arise, you could ride that dog to safety.

She should be female. At least in appearance.

She should be roughly as awkward as I am, give or take a few. Meaning, she should be awkward enough to make an entire room of people unable to enjoy themselves by her mere presence, but not necessarily awkward enough to make said people cry.

And that’s about it. Other than that, she should have blond hair (no more than 8 inches in length), work at the Whole Foods on 6th Ave and 24th St, and hate phonies.

I think it’s the lost look on his face. Like he’s not sure whether he’s at the right house or not.

But maybe… just maybe… he’s been knocking awhile. And nobody’s coming. No one’s opening the door for Jesus.

I guess, what this picture is really asking is: Why is no one “letting Jesus in”?

Well, judging by the picture, it’s pretty late.

And, with the exception of the staff in his hand, there’s no real clues as to what he wants. He could just want to say “hey”, but he might want to hang out. Usually I’m cool with that, but sometimes he just keeps going, you know? On and on and on, and then you’re like “Hey, you know, might be about time to head out?” And he’s all, “I don’t know. I’m pretty hungry.”

And you can’t not feed him. So you give him the smallest piece of fish and tiniest bit of bread you’ve got in the whole house. Lo and behold, two minutes later, the jackass has multiplied his snack into a three hour meal. By this point he’s usually got about three glasses of “water” in him, so it’s only seconds before he starts in on the apostles. Who’s the Greater, who’s the Lesser, you know, all that stuff. After about two more glasses he’ll “accidentally” take a walk on our indoor pool, saying things like “Oh, is this not floor? This felt like floor to me.”

After that it’s not really a question of whether he’s staying the night, it’s just a question of where. Then he starts in on the whole “oh, i’ll just sleep in the barn. Yeah. Don’t worry about me. I’m a barn baby. I’m a manger man. Just a dirty floor and a couple animals, and it’s lights out, Jesus.”

So you kind of half offer him your bed, but not really. To which he responds “Are you sure?” Which is really the most jackass response you can give because it’s like a “yes, i’ll take it, but only if you offer it to me one more time.”

And then you’re up all night. Sleeping god knows where. Worried out of your mind because tomorrow morning you have to somehow throw Jesus Christ out of your house. And you can no longer use the only real weapon you had: “It’s late.”

So knowing what you know now. Knowing all this. Take a look back at that picture.

Now, I know what you’re gonna say: “Wow. He aged really well.” And I agree, the man still knows how to use his lips. But that aside. I want you to take some time right now and use it the way God intended, thinking about Dolph.

Think about “Universal Solder”.

Think about “Rocky IV”

Think about “Masters of the Universe”. He was He-man, you guys. He-man. He killed Frank Langella, and he did it for all the right reasons.

You know his name’s not really Dolph. It’s Hans. He changed it. Changed it for you. So that you’d have the opportunity to call another human being “Dolph”. So you could call his mom at home and say, “Is Dolph in?”, and then stifle your laughs before screaming “I must break you!” and slamming down the phone . He did all that for you.

The least you could do is stop thinking about Emilio Estevez, FOR ONCE, and focus on one of your long forgotten friends.

He-man, you guys. He-man.

(NOTE: Please use the comments section to share your favorite Dolph Lundgren experience. And yes. You do have one.)

People have a certain expectation when they hear the words “Pete McElligott”. They expect a certain face, a certain feel, a certain font, a certain “grandiose” if you will. But more than that, they expect me. But still even more than that, I expect me. We all should.

I guess that’s my first problem with www.petemcelligott.com.

He’s not me.

His web address promises something very specific. It promises Pete McElligott. And yet, not one link. Not one photo. Not one ballad or villanelle written in ode to yours truly.

I can only imagine the betrayal you all must have felt when you were googling my name, clicking on every link you could find, and coming up with this. The hate-mail this man must have received. The death threats I’m sure he’s gotten, unless my postage was incorrect. It’s just a bad situation.

And not only does the site not deliver on the promise of me, but what it gives you is not just him. It’s him and his wife! Now it’s two versus one, and, goddammit, that’s just not fair.

And yet… perhaps it works to our advantage. Try and follow my brilliant mind on this one.

We get them divorced. How, you ask?

Mayhaps a bra planted in the couple’s bed. Something lacy and red with another woman’s name painted on it DOUSED in his cologne with a note pinned to the left cup that says “oh oh oh sex so good while wifey gone outside”.

Boom. End of marriage.

Questions arise. “Who gets the kids? Who gets the house? WHO GETS THE SITE?! Do we even still want the site? Probably not. Too many bad memories. What do we do?!”

Two months later the site is dead and gone along with their love. A week later www.petemcelligott.com is doing what it was meant to do from the start: selling cheaply made t-shirts as a front for my numerous credit card schemes.

But I didn’t do it for me. Oh no. I did it for Joe and Jane American. Whose domain I just bought. And have turned into a poster shop.

In closing, Pete McElligott, give me back my website. Or I will fuck up your marriage.

Where did the idea of zombies come from? Well, it’s horror, right? And what’s more horrifying than the thought of your whole family being killed and them coming back to life to kill you? Nothing. The answer is nothing.

But here’s the thing, I don’t think that’s where the idea for zombies came from. I think it came not from a place of horror, but from a place of “Wishful Thinking”. Listen.

Who among us hasn’t gotten really pissed off at our neighbor and said something along the lines of:

“Oh, I wish they’d just get sick and die.”

We’ve all said that. All of us. Some of us have shouted that in the middle of church we’ve wanted it so bad.

But then you think about it and you realize, it’s really not enough. It’s not enough for them just to die. I want to hurt them in some way. Preferably, with my shotgun.

But at the same time, I don’t want to just walk around shooting sick people. I don’t want to be known as “that guy.” There’s gotta be another way.

And then it hits. What if. What if after they go through their terrible, horrible, somehow-involving-lots-of-puss death, they were to come back? Not only come back, but be trying to hurt me? So now, I’ve got no choice. I have to shoot Carl. Not because his dog keeps shitting on my lawn and I’M the one who has to clean it up, but because Carl is now the living dead and out to get me. Add to that dream come true, the fact that Carl can only move about an inch a minute and stumbles into almost everything he can, and you’ve got something that’s closer to therapy than a horror story.

Who among us isn’t secretly hoping that tomorrow morning we’re going to have to grab our gun and our best gal and just blow the rest of the neighborhood straight to hell, grabbing as much canned corn along the way as possible?

The answer to that question, ladies and gentlemen, is why people are scary.

Now, I understand that most woman find him attractive and that’s fine. That’s just fine. I’m not going to argue with you. That’s between you and the desperate screams of your biological clock. But that doesn’t mean we have to pay this guy hundreds of thousands of dollars (and unfortunately, someday soon, millions) to get on the big screen and give me an aneurysm. He’s terrible. He’s untalented. He’s not good.

Now don’t get me wrong. There is a place in this business for Jim. A very important place where he can still be enjoyed on the levels that I’m willing to allow. And that place is the porn industry. Now before you disagree with me, ladies, let me just say that I believe that Jenna Jameson is attractive. Very attractive. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to force people to watch her play Lady Macbeth. Maybe Olivia in Twelfth Night, but never Lady Macbeth.

In closing, you should just stop being a jerk and agree with me. Jim Sturgess is no good.